Chessmaster & Other HP Oneshots
by Nacouli's Fires
Summary: Every author needs a place for all of those half-baked ideas that never really pan out or take off, and upon hitting the biggest bout of writer's block I've ever had, I've decided to get mine started.
1. Chapter 1: Chessmaster Ch 01

**A/N: Hey! I'm alive! My other story's latest chapter is getting reviewed as we speak, so I figured that, to tide you over, whomever you may be, I'd post this new little tidbit. It's definitely a darker story, and I have no blueprint or plan whatsoever with this, but I loved writing it, and I honestly think that it's something unique, so enjoy the first chapter of Chessmaster!**

His first thought as his eyes snapped open was that nothing had changed. His chamber was still bathed in darkness, the cold stone altar he had been lain upon as tradition decreed still felt as coarse and unforgiving as it had so many years ago, scratching and biting in to his skin like hooks, as if the very slab of ancient rock was trying to hold him captive.

Stiff muscles protesting, he pushed himself upright, lightheadedness overtaking him immediately. He hadn't eaten anything since the sealing of the chamber, dormant as he'd been, so retching was useless, and yet it happened anyway. So weak. So _human_. He had thought that the ritual would have him transcend humanity, but it would seem that upon waking that he was just as mortal as before.

He felt no difference in his body whatsoever. He did not know how long he had been asleep, be it less than the cycle of a moon or more than a thousand, he couldn't tell. Looking upon his mess, he found a bile far blacker than any he had seen before. Unholy in scent and appearance, it sat, an outlier to his otherwise obviously human condition.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted, the almost pure blackness fading slightly to show the outlines of the chamber's various features, just as he remembered them. The small chamber held almost nothing besides the table he had been left on. An empty basin that was once filled with water now sat empty. The air felt stale. It had obviously been quite some time since he had been laid to rest. Blinking away the fatigue his eyes felt at suddenly being put to use, he began to examine every inch in detail.

He didn't know how long he searched his tomb come prison, but when he found a crack in the wall, he felt more energized than ever. Picking with his bare hands, he soon- felt more than saw- his blood began to drip on to the cold floor below. Still he worked. Momentary pain was nothing if it meant freedom.

As he worked, the task became mindless, and soon his mind began to wander. The pieces had all been put in place, the chessboard that was their world was perfectly aligned in their favor, until the Black King himself had come from his castle to tear in to the ranks himself, scattering bodies and cleaving the ranks like so many unwanted pests. Men twice his size were turned to dust at his touch. Children watched as the heads of their fathers and brothers were held aloft, one final gift before being either sent to work as slaves for the wealthy, or killed outright.

A crack of sunlight broke him from his reverie. Finally! With renewed vigor he worked, tearing at chunks of stone like a starving man presented with a cooked beef. As the hole grew steadily larger, he felt his resolve harden. He wasn't supposed to be woken until someone from the outside sought his presence, and since the wall had not given way, something must have gone wrong. He was determined to find out what.

Finally large enough to crawl through, he dove through his makeshift escape tunnel. Stone scraped away at his skin, even more pale, he realized, as it was hit with direct sunlight. He must've been hidden away longer than originally thought. Stumbling free, he managed to right himself, the sunlight finally bathing him in it's golden rays. Then he felt it.

Just as they'd read about. The unimaginable, filling sensation of something more than mere magic permeating his being. His core felt irrelevant now, as this first rush hit. And for the first time in almost twenty years, Ronald Billius Weasley cracked a smile.


	2. Chapter 2: Musings of a Bookworm

**A/N: Hey there! Here's the second one-shot I wrote to keep the creative muscle flexing. It's a Hermione-centric story, which I've always loved reading, so I figured I would try my hand at it. In fanfic, she's made out to be this Mary Sue-esque character, and that just isn't true. I won't go in to my whole TED Talk here, but suffice to say that Hermione is socially awkward, and it would obviously have an effect on how she behaves. A quick shoutout to my beta Cassandra30, who is currently recuperating from surgery before looking over **_**In Defense**_ **for me. This one is dedicated to her for being so awesome! Happy reading!**

She had always been one to follow rules, and they'd both been told to stay behind. "I have to do this alone." He'd said, and in her blind loyalty, she had accepted it as fact.

"I can't let anyone else die." He'd said, and with her analytical mind, she had seen the sense in it. Better to have one man die than several hundred, after all.

"It has to be me." He'd said, and the nostalgic part of her could see that that was what the little boy from first year would do, so she had let him.

The stubborn part of her had screamed that she couldn't back down, that they had done _everything _together, that they were partners, _family_, and if he said one more word about his having to keep _her _safe, Merlin and the _four bloody Founders _wouldn't be able to keep her from hexing his-

The rational part of her brain had kicked in after that.

The hopeless romantic inside her (deep, deep inside, she corrected) would not be ignored as it filled her head with useless fantasies that would obviously never come to be. She blamed her mother for leaving out one of her trashy romance novels on a day when their weekly library visit had to be cancelled. After all, what seven-year old _wouldn't _be interested in a book about a princess who had her treasure stolen by a roguish bandit? It sounded exciting! Of course, she hadn't figured out until much later what that treasure _was_, and had been suitably horrified. Never again would she read a book without reading the jacket first, she'd promised.

Of course, as usual, the socially awkward part of Hermione, the facet of her personality that had so often dominated her mind, and controlled her actions, won out. She had been getting more comfortable with herself for years now, but it was high-stakes moments like this that made her feel like an outcast again, as jittery as a rabbit, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. So she stayed silent.

She'd only nodded when Harry told her what he was planning, and hugged him as hard as she could when he told them both that he had to go as the hour drew near. She hadn't wanted to let go. She didn't think any of them did, as they stood there outside on the steps of the Great Hall, staring at the overcast skies to avoid saying what was all on their minds. All of the things she wanted to say swirled around in her mind like a hurricane of indecision, phrases that she just couldn't bring herself to say, like "Goodbye", and "Don't go", and "Please Harry, for the love of Merlin, you'll _die._" Phrases like "I can't do this without you," and "I'm in love with you, even if I don't know what that should feel like." And most of all, "I'm sorry." She said the apology over and over again, every slight transgression coming back to haunt her as her best friend finally pulled away to walk to his doom.

The Firebolt incident, the mishap with the polyjuice, not being able to help with the basilisk, hiding the time turner, being so rude on the train all the way back in first year. All of the events, no matter how trivial, tumbled through her mind in no order whatsoever, her composed demeanor crumbling second by second as everything seemed to spin, as, finally, Harry disappeared in to the Forbidden Forest.

She didn't think she could go on if he didn't come back. And she definitely didn't want to find out if that was true. She knew that under Voldemort's regime, she'd be less than worthless. As her mind whirred, she thought up plan after plan, each more insane and improbable than the last.

They could run away together- leave the Wizarding world behind and go live in Australia with her parents, or flee to America and beg for protection from the Magical Congress. They could re-Fidelius Grimmauld Place and hide there, completely isolated from the world. If she was the Secret Keeper, and they never left the property, then they'd be completely safe! They could rebuild the Room of Requirement and hide there! Neville was able to make it work perfectly, and they could create safe passageways to the kitchens for food, and-

And it was useless. She knew they were all pipe dreams. Useless fantasies that her brain had concocted to keep her sane. All she could really do, was wait.

So she sat on the steps, stared at the Forest, and waited.


	3. Chapter 3: Chessmaster Ch 02

**A/N: Hey there! To the fabulous people that viewed this short little introduction, thanks! To those that followed, you **_**absolutely **_**kick ass. If you happen to like this story, then I hope you'd consider checking out my other in progress story. It's currently on hold due to some heavy shit that's been going on, which I won't explain here, considering that it consists of many triggering topics, but there are currently eight chapters up if you'd like to give it a look. It tackles a theory I've had for a while now, and has garnered a generally positive response. I wish that I wouldn't have had to be gone so long, but things like that take priority over my writing. All I'll say is to stay safe out there folks. Don't walk alone at night. Now, on with the story.**

"No. Absolutely not. I might not be as smart as Hermione, Ron, but the amount of pain you'd have to go through for this would drive you insane, if it didn't kill you first!" Harry said as he looked out the window of Grimmauld Place.

They'd had this argument many times over the past few weeks, and it was only through concern for the other that the two boys didn't go insane from treading the same ground over and over again.

"Well I'm not letting _you _do it! Hermione was right! This whole "saving people thing" you have is going to get you killed, and I won't abide by it." Ron snapped, his face, red from all the shouting, had gained a slight pallor at the thought of what _one _of them would have to go through. It wasn't pretty. If even one rune was misdrawn, then the power storage ritual could backfire and "pop them like a balloon", according to Hermione. He didn't know what a balloon was, but he didn't like the idea of being popped regardless.

"Don't you think I _know _that?" Harry yelled as he spun to face his best friend. "I've had a psychotic madman out for my blood since before I was _born_, Ron! I'm going to be in the line of fire no matter what. I may as well save as many lives as I can before my luck runs out, and if I die during the ritual, then I'll just be speeding up the inevitable."

The kitchen door creaked open sharply, stopping their argument as easily as the look from the woman who had opened it.

"It's ready."

Both still trying to get their breathing under control, the two young men nodded, and with lead feet, walked to the sitting room of the Black ancestral home, knowing instinctively that this would be an event that would leave their lives changed forever.

"Merlin, Hermione! You did all of this in _two hours_?" Ron gaped as they entered the dimly lit room. "There must be at least two books' worth of runes on the floor!"

The bushy-haired witch smirked at the remark. "Two and a half, actually, but all in all not a bad guess. So are you two done arguing, or do I need to throw one of you in to this thing myself? We _do _have the fate of humanity to think of, you know."

His vision flashed white as the memory faded, his head snapping backwards as his muscles tensed and his breathing halted. "_That's the increased mental clarity, then." _He thought. "_Stupid bloody ritual. She didn't say it would hurt _afterwards _too_."

Feeling like he'd run to Hogsmeade and back while carrying both Crabbe _and _Goyle, he fell against the wall of his former "residence", shuddering from both physical exhaustion, and the feeling of raw, untrained power pumping through his brain, both of which caused a thudding behind his eyes that made his skull vibrate.

As his back hit the rough-hewn stone, he realized that he was still as naked as the night that he and Harry had "borrowed" Blaise's stash of spiked butterbeer. He had apparently been so consumed with escape- one of Hermione's implanted suggestions, no doubt- that he had forgotten to grab the clothing that had been stored in the chamber alongside his now useless wand.

Not eager to drag his open wounds across the stone any more than absolutely necessary, he pushed outward with his mind. In the months they'd been held up in the Black ancestral home, they'd had plenty of time to comb the musty library for any useful tomes that Harry hadn't already collected for them over the years.

_Magical awareness, a skill employed by many wizards of note over the last three centuries, acted as a sort of magical echolocation_, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione reminded him. _Sending forth an unfocused burst of magic, the caster would be able to sense, to varying degrees of accuracy, whether enchanted or magical items were nearby, and with extensive training, a vague sense of their purpose._

He stumbled again. That was going to take some getting used to. With a shake of his head to clear the cobwebs, he crawled back through, prepared to crawl through kilometers of rough stone if it meant that he could one day see his friends again.


	4. Chapter 4: Hermione's Faux Pas

**A/N: Greetings! I've been away from fanfiction, and writing in general, for a long time. Life got crazy shortly after my last posting, and depressing soon after. It's a long story that I won't bother going in to here. All of this to say that I'm back, and with this pandemic business going on, I figure that I have nothing better to do than write. Hope you like this short little tidbit. I think that the Golden Trio deserve some time off, don't you?**

The winter wind howled outside as Harry, Ron, and Hermione worked on their latest Potions essay. Well, working was a bit of a strong word.

Harry had borrowed a rubber band from Hermione and was currently shooting it at Ron when he wasn't looking, trying to convince his ginger-haired friend that he had mastered a wandless stinging hex.

Ron was trying to look over Hermione's shoulder, since she wouldn't show him her essay, and Hermione was multitasking, quill scratching away in one hand, and wand aimed in Ron's direction with the other, the _avis_ charm on the tip of her tongue.

"C'mon, Hermione! What's the big deal? It's just one essay!" Ron begged.

"A week."

"For the past four years," Hermione finished with a snort.

Ron heaved a sigh. "So? It's not like I'm having you write it for me, I just wanted to check the- ow! How are you doing that?"

"Potter family secret, Ron. If I told you, they'd have to kill me."

Hermione rolled her eyes as Harry summoned the rubber band for the umpteenth time, and shot him an exasperated look.

"When are you going to tell him?" She muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

Harry couldn't help but grin. "Never." He whispered back. "Too much fun."

During their conversation, Ron had slowly been leaning closer while Hermione was momentarily distracted. Ever the strategist, he had been waiting for her to get distracted, or at least wait her out. Knowing Hermione, this was no easy feat. Overzealous in his urge to avoid writing yet _another _essay, he hadn't noticed the discarded parchment on the floor near his foot, which he promptly slipped on, just as Harry once more took aim.

All of these events transpired in less than three seconds, all going unnoticed by the three teens involved. Despite his quick reflexes, even Harry wasn't able to grab the rubber band after it was flung on it's usual trajectory towards where Ron had been a mere second before. Having tripped forward, Hermione had leaned forward to protect her essay, at which point, she had promptly been shot by a wayward rubber band.

"_Son of a fuck!" _Hermione shouted, shielding her eye as the entire common room ceased to move. Unperturbed, her rant of expletives continued. "Stupid, neandrathilic, self-absorbed, quaffle-brained morons!" She finished, blinking away the tears the blow had caused to see that the entire common room was now not only looking at her, but Colin Creevey had managed to capture the entire incident in one perfectly timed moving photograph.

Both boys involved in the incident looked at her in awe.

"Ron," Harry said slowly, not having moved from his frozen position. "Do you think this is what Trelawney meant when she said that the Grimm was in our near future?"

Hermione's eyes, still watering, flicked between the two compatriots, and began to twitch slightly with every reply.

Still not moving, he replied. "I don't think I want to find out."

"Run on three?"

"Better than staying here."

"True enough."

The boys slowly inched away from the still sputtering bibliophile.

"Does that ancient family magic have any other tricks we could use?"

"Let's just stick to running away."

"Agreed."

With a nod of confirmation, they both bolted toward the portrait hole, a half-blinded witch hot on their heels.

**It's quite short, I know, but this was more of a test than anything. Regardless, I'm thinking of writing a few more fluff pieces like this one. Maybe a Voldemort-less AU. Tell me what you think!**


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